—five of pentacles, Rider-Waite
With nowhere to go,
we stumble past the church.
My crutches sink into snow,
your tatters clutched close.
The only warmth is within,
not here. The glass stained
roses bloom, and apples
ripen just out of reach.
Compassion for yourself
is not enough. Be happy
with our fortunate life,
but be aware, beware:
snow falls over the city;
night grows ever nearer.
(July 6, 2023)
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